The Pieces Don't Fit Anymore
by Maxiekat
Summary: Things are starting to unravel. A visit to the Smithsonian starts to chip away at the cracks in his memory, but then all hell breaks loose and he finds himself on the run with a hostage.
1. Chapter 1

**The Pieces Don't Fit Anymore**

**Chapter One**

There was something in his head – a voice. It had taken him a while before he'd realized it was his own.

He'd never heard himself in his thoughts before. The voices in his head were always from _them_. The men in the white coats with the nervous clicking pens and their darting eyes that never met his. Talked about him like he wasn't in the room even though he was their sole purpose for being there. They told him what to think, filled his mind with data and facts and missions as they wiped away feelings and fear and … him. As they wiped him away and left behind the weapon.

This new voice in his head was questioning things – trying to sort out what was happening. But he didn't have answers anymore than he knew what his next move should be. There never was a _before_. There never was a _later_. There was always just _now_. The moment. His mission. His orders.

He was programmed to go back – back to the HYDRA lab hidden in the vault, back to a safe house in Pennsylvania, back to any number of locations scattered across the globe where they would take him in. He needed to give his mission report. Take his punishment. Put the bit back in his mouth before the pain flooded his mind as he was erased. That was what he was supposed to do – what he was programmed to do.

He'd gone to the lab first. Part of him was disappointed to find it abandoned - the soldiers and scientists who'd stood by and watched him scream in agony had run. He wanted to make them know what it felt like to scream in agony, but instead he destroyed and shattered what he could, until his chest heaved and his damaged, fucked-up arm ached and his fingers bled.

There were tapes. Stacks of them and along with boxes of files, yellowed with time and covered in dust. He watched one of the tapes – seeing himself as they saw him. A trapped animal, helpless and weak. His metal fist clenched as the him on the screen arched his back and cried out.

He wanted to tear the tapes apart, make the images burn, but he didn't. The files he paged through had pictures – old pictures. The man was in them. _The captain_, the words on the page said. Steve Rogers. The name made his breath hitch as he scanned the file. He remembered but then he didn't. A flash, gone in an instant.

He took some of the files but left the tapes for him. For the man. For the captain. His gut told him he'd find the vault, find the place where he'd screamed as his mind went blank. He didn't know how he knew, just that he did.

There was another name in the files.

James Buchanan Barnes.

On the helicarrier, the man had said that was his name. But that didn't make any sense. He didn't have a name.

Whoever James Buchanan Barnes was, he was a stranger to him.

He should have left then and there – put Washington, D.C. as far behind him as he could. He started to formulate a plan that would take him deep into the wilderness, away from soldiers and scientists and pain and emptiness, but the voice kept getting in the way. Questions he didn't know he was capable of asking needed answers and he knew the only person who could give them to him was the man he'd left bleeding on the banks of the Potomac.

Several days after the vault, he found himself standing in a museum filled with the history he'd lived through in fits and starts, staring at the picture before him – at the man he supposedly was. The picture matched the one in the files, and the one screaming in the videos, and the one he saw in the broken mirror in the abandoned building he was hiding in. He'd memorized the recording playing over some hidden speakers – talking about James Buchanan Barnes. The soldier. The hero. The friend.

Another life. Another time.

"Not me. Not me. Not me." The litany kept repeating in his head.

He squeezed his metal fist, creaking in the leather glove he wore to hide it. He could hear the mechanics shift, the plates moving slightly to perform the simplest of gestures. To his ears, they sounded as loud as a gunshot. He glanced at the people around him – tourists, families, dressed nice, smiling, laughing – did they hear it too? Did they know who he was? What he had done? That death was standing among them?

He looked down at his clothes. Noticing for the first time that he looked like a vagrant. He _was_ a vagrant – squatting in an abandoned building, sleeping on a battered mattress on the floor with the rats, rooting through the trash for food.

He looked back at the picture. "Not me," he said aloud without meaning to. He closed his eyes, willing control to come back. "Not me," he whispered again, but his brain wouldn't shut off. "Maybe you. Maybe you. It's you. You're him. It's you. You're him."

The urge to put his fist through James Buchanan Barnes's face was overwhelming. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the exhibit, turning his back on a past that was lost to him and a future he could never have, even if he wanted it.

A woman was standing behind him and he almost collided with her in his haste to leave. On instinct, he reached out and grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. He told himself it was to keep from causing a scene, to keep from drawing attention to himself, but it felt more like an instinct the ghost in the pictures would have had than the weapon with a blank mind and cold heart.

She gasped softly and he realized his mistake. He'd used his left hand, the metal one. And he was hurting her. "Sorry," he muttered but didn't let go.

"It's okay," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Quite the grip you've got there."

He didn't answer her. He should let go. He had to let go. Her eyes got wide. Nervous. She should be. She was small. Shorter than him, her head barely reaching his shoulders. He could break her arm with barely a twitch of his metal fingers if he wanted to.

"Um," she said, swallowing heavily. "You can let go. Not gonna trip. Crisis averted." She tugged slightly on her arm and smiled, though he could tell the smile was forced. Fake. A lie.

His grip loosened and she backed away from him. She hesitated and he ducked his head, hiding his eyes behind the brim of his cap. He didn't like the way she was looking at him.

She pulled something from her pocket as she turned to leave, probably a phone. He'd learned quickly that everyone carried one with them. He could hear the faint beeps as she typed something on it. It only took him two strides to catch back up with her.

Reaching over her shoulder from behind, he snatched the phone from her hand. The number 911 was on the screen. She hadn't pressed send yet.

He grabbed her arm again and pushed her into the empty screening room located a few feet away, not even giving her a chance to react or call out for help. According to the sign outside the door, a Captain America documentary would be showing again in a half an hour. The lights were down and they were alone.

"Who were you calling?" he demanded, backing her into a corner. The walls were lined with heavy navy blue curtains, dampening the sounds outside the room.

"No … no one," she stammered.

"Don't lie." He looked at the phone again. "911 is the police, correct?" He didn't know why he knew that – just that he did. There were lots of things like that – facts, words, objects, functions – that the men in the white coats must have uploaded to his brain like it was a computer.

He could tell she was trying to figure out how to answer. A lie would be pointless. She squared her shoulders and looked him right in the eye. "Yes, I was calling the police," she said. He detected the signs of stress, but she was doing well in hiding them.

"Why? I let you go."

"The news," she explained. "I recognized you, from the news. They said you're … you're dangerous, that you hurt a lot of people."

He closed his eyes, breathing deep. The images of destruction flashing in his mind. He could still smell the smoke on his skin even though he'd tried to scrub it off days ago.

"Are you Bucky Barnes?" she whispered, like it took a great effort for her to get the question out.

That name. Hearing it from someone other than the captain and other than his traitorous thoughts caused anger and another feeling that he couldn't name to grip his chest. He made a fist, fighting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. "Why do you think I'm Barnes?" He held his breath as he waited for her answer.

"Well, if Captain America came back, why couldn't he?" He shook his head but she laughed, a soft, strangled sound that bordered on a sob. "Look, I know it sounds crazy," she continued, "but this world stopped making sense once aliens attacked us two years ago."

"I'm not him," he said, his voice steady, as though convincing this stranger was the most important thing in his life right now. His new mission. "I can never be him. They made me." _They made me broken_, he thought.

"Who?" She took a step toward him, making it easier for him to reach out and grab her throat. Twist and snap and kill. Stupid girl. Stupid, trusting girl.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "The men. The white coats. The lab. The coffin made of ice." His mind was unraveling as he slid down the wall, his head in his hands. "I'm not him. I can't be him."

XxXxXxXxXx

The vault wasn't locked. That was the first clue that something wasn't quite right. Steve doubted HYDRA would leave the door open, roll out the welcome mat and say, "Here you go, all our nasty little secrets. Turn off the lights when you're done."

The door being unlocked should have prepared Steve for the sight that greeted him when it swung open, but it didn't. Trashed was putting it kindly.

"Someone wasn't happy," Sam said behind him.

"To say the least," Steve agreed as he took a gingerly step into the vault. His eyes scanned the room. Whoever did the trashing could still be inside – though he had a feeling they were long gone. The whole mess had a feeling of being _settled_, like a building after a bomb had gone off and the destruction finally stopped and all you were left with was the aftermath to sift through.

"You think he did this?" Sam asked as he went to one corner and started picking through the mess. Steve didn't answer; his attention was riveted to the chair in the center of the room. It didn't take much imagination to picture Bucky, strapped down and helpless as he was tortured and brainwashed. There were shards of monitors and equipment littering the floor around the chair – high tech shrapnel, years of HYDRA work reduced to bits of plastic, metal and wires.

"Yo, Cap, back here," Sam called from another room.

"Videos. Lots of videos. And files. Whoever went kamikaze on the place left all this stuff untouched."

"He wanted me to see it. And then destroy it."

"What makes you so sure?"

Steve moved the edge of a torn map taped to the wall, revealing a crudely written message underneath. "BURN IT ALL"

"Is that blood?"

"I hope not," Steve said grimly.

"Keep looking around. I'll sift through these and let you know if I find anything." Steve nodded, knowing that Sam was trying to shield him from the worst of it. It was tough, knowing even a fraction of what Bucky went through for the past seventy years. He had to know the rest, though – he owed him that much.

A tall metal box in the back corner caught his eye and he left Sam to the video player. He recognized it from the file Natasha had given him. The cryochamber. The door to it was open, hanging off its hinges. The thick glass window was cracked and Steve could imagine Bucky trying to put his metal fist through it.

Taking a deep breath, Steve stepped inside. A wave of claustrophobia, unlike anything he'd ever felt before, washed over him. He turned slowly, barely able to move in the confined space. Cold clung to the metal walls and he imagined Bucky trapped inside as they slowly froze him, placing him in stasis until they needed him again. Did he know? Would he know what was happening? Freezing to death over and over again. Dying countless times.

Steve knew what it was like – the cold seeping into your bones, taking hold and not letting go. The pain as blood crystallized and no more breath could be forced through frozen lungs. The peace of finally letting go and falling asleep. At least when Steve woke up, he was warm and he was safe. What Bucky woke to was a living nightmare.

"I'm so sorry, Bucky," he whispered, leaning his head back against the cold metal and closing his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"Found something," Sam announced.

"What is it?" Steve asked as he pushed himself out of the chamber, still shaken but determined to see this to the end.

"Looks like this isn't the first time they lost control of Barnes," Sam explained, taking a step back from the monitor so Steve could get a clearer look at the video.

"The asset was sent to New York with a mission," a doctor explained in heavily accented English. "He completed it, but then vanished for two weeks. We lost all contact. Eventually, his programming brought him back to us, but we cannot risk losing him again. Measures will be taken to insure this does not happen a second time."

"New York?" Steve muttered as he rewound the footage, going back to the placard that announced the date it was being filmed. The date was 1991 and for some reason that caused something to flutter in the back of his brain. That year meant something.

"You okay, man? You just turned a weird shade of green."

"I think this just got a whole lot worse. Do you have your phone on you?"

"Of course. You got yours, too, you know," Sam pointed out but Steve shook his head, a flash of a grin breaking through the worry on his face.

"We'll be here all day if I try to type on that thing right now. Look up Howard Stark. I need to know the date he died."

Steve was right, Sam was far faster on the phone than he would have been. Thirty seconds later and Sam had what Steve asked for. "Howard Stark was killed in a car accident in December 1991…." Sam's voice trailed off as he looked up at the freeze framed image on the monitor. "Shit," Sam said.

"They had Bucky kill one of the best men I've ever known," Steve said quietly, more to himself than to Sam.

"And Iron Man's dad. He's gonna be pissed."

"You can say that again."

"Sounds like killing Stark messed with their programming."

"He knew Howard. Not well, but they'd met a few times. Maybe that broke through the brainwashing, screwed something up." Steve picked up the file Sam had on the table – also dated 1991. It outlined the new "treatments" they were testing on Bucky to make sure they didn't lose him again – pictures, data, statistics. Systematic, clinical torture. Steve felt sick to his stomach.

Sam was reading over his shoulder. "Guess they thought they'd figured it out, how to keep him on the leash."

"Only it didn't work this time. He remembered me."

"And their plans for world domination are at the bottom of the Potomac and their assassin is off the reservation."

"They knew our connection. It's here in their files." Steve said as he tried to place the pieces together. "They knew who Bucky was."

"It's their fault they sent him after you. You triggered a reaction."

"Maybe that's what they wanted." Steve got up and walked back to the cryochamber. "Chaos. The final act in their play. They didn't need him anymore and they were ready to make themselves known. Bucky was a means to an end."

"Keep you occupied as they wiped out millions of people? Talk about some fucked up plans." Sam laughed, but there was no humor behind it. "I still don't know how they though they could win."

"Arrogance. How could they fail?"

XxXxXxXxXx

He was about to step through the theater's exit, leaving the woman behind, when a uniformed police officer walked by. Followed by another and then another. He stepped back into the dark room. They didn't have much time before the police discovered them - he needed a plan to escape and he needed it fast.

He pushed the woman up against the wall, bracing her across her throat with the back of his arm, the pain in his shoulder flaring and pulsing, but he ignored it. With his metal hand, he pulled out his gun, holding it loosely at his side, the threat implied.

"You called them," he hissed in her face. "You said you didn't."

"I didn't call them." She swallowed, her eyes on the gun. "You know I didn't. Someone else recognized you. Like I said you've been all over …"

"The news," he finished for her and stepped back, letting his arm drop. "On the television."

She nodded slowly, her hand going to her throat, her fingers trembling. "I can't be the only one who put two and two together."

He grabbed her arm again. "I need you to come with me."

"No. You don't." She tugged and his grip tightened. "Please don't."

"A hostage." The word came out before he could stop himself.

"That will just draw more attention to you." She was strong, but he could tell he was quickly pushing her toward a breaking point.

"Not if you don't make a scene. Just walk out with me. No sudden moves."

"They'll know."

"The man they're looking for does not know anyone else. Would not have someone with him." And no one on the face of the earth, except for maybe the man he was supposed to kill, would offer him help.

"I can't."

He pressed his hand to his eyes, trying to press down the thoughts and the rising panic. He couldn't lose control. If he lost control, they'd have him. He'd be captured or killed. Desperate, he said something he didn't realize he had the power to say. "Please."

"I -" she started to object.

"Please," he repeated and he had a flash, a flash of a man in a suit backhanding him for his weakness. He felt weak now and confused. He'd been out of cryo too long and the parts that kept being wiped away were starting to creep back.

Defeated, the woman sagged against the wall. She would help him, whether she wanted to or not.

He motioned for her to stay where she was as he edged toward the doorway, looking out into the exhibit - people were being ushered out by the police, but there were others there as well. Not cops. They held themselves differently and were dressed as civilians, but he knew. They were the soldiers. Maybe not the same ones who stood and watched as he screamed and screamed, but they might as well be.

"How many?" the woman asked.

He should lie to keep her calm. "Too many," he said instead.

There was a service hallway back near some restrooms just outside the exhibit, behind the escalator – it led to an exit tucked down the side of the building and he'd used it to sneak in, to avoid the metal detectors. If he managed to keep from being identified, then he could easily escape the way he'd come in.

He checked his gun, releasing the safety before placing it within easy reach in his jacket pocket.

"You can't hurt them. They're just doing their jobs," the woman said, some of her resolve returning.

"It's not just the police out there," he said.

"What?"

"HYDRA. They found me."

XxXxXxXxXx

Sam was taping up the last box of stuff they were going to take with them from the vault when Steve's phone rang.

"They found him." The voice on the other end didn't even wait for a hello. "The Smithsonian. Air and Space Museum. You can probably guess which exhibit."

"Natasha …"

"Steve," she interrupted, "if I have a program set up scanning the police band, then so does HYDRA. There's not much time. I'm too far out. Are you and Sam …"

"We're in D.C. - we're close."

"Be careful." The line disconnected.

Sam looked up at him and sighed when he saw the look on his friend's face. "I'm ready when you are."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Well, she could scratch "Get kidnapped by an amnesiac-homicidal-maniac- time-traveler" off her bucket list. If she actually had a bucket list. And a death wish.

Sarah wasn't completely that surprised that her day had taken such a drastic turn. Her life had been spiraling out of control and into a big gaping pit of suckdom since Monday – so getting kidnapped was par for the course by that point.

She'd lost her job – the one that actually paid the bills, not the one that paid absolutely nothing because it was an intern position at the Washington Post that she needed to gain experience so she could get a real job. To be fair, she was a terrible waitress and she would have fired herself, too – probably weeks ago.

If that wasn't enough, her loser roommate chose that week to vanish with just a note detailing her need to move on with her life and travel the world and find herself and blah blah blah. Oh, and she was super sorry she was leaving Sarah hanging but finding oneself apparently means not paying your share of the rent. As if Sarah's job situation wasn't enough – now she had to scrape up more money in less than two weeks to pay the rent or wind up on the streets, or worse - back home with her parents. Plus, her loser roommate took the TV and the toaster. At least she left her the cat.

Taking a break from blanketing the better part of Washington, DC with applications, Sarah found herself in the Air & Space Museum, a place she'd always loved to wander around. Plus, admission was free and it got her out of her TV-less apartment for a while.

She'd been in the Captain America exhibit so many times that she'd practically had the whole thing memorized. She was contemplating applying for a job as a tour guide at the museum when the stupid saying that "things happen in threes" actually did happen and she found herself face to face with a guy who, according to the news, killed more people than she could count and who, according to her own two eyes and extensive Captain America knowledge, died during World War II.

"I should have just gone to the zoo," she muttered as the not-dead, possibly homicidal Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes grabbed her arm and pulled her out into the main exhibit area, swarming with cops and God knows who else.

XxXxXxXxXx

They'd almost made it to the exit. Almost.

The woman was trembling, obviously nervous, but she listened to him – sticking by his side, nodding and smiling as though they were close friends who had known each other for more than fifteen minutes.

He kept his metal hand on the small of her back, to guide her and control her if he needed to. She was expendable, at least that was what he told himself. Another part of him felt a need to protect, to keep safe, to shield. He wasn't sure which instinct would take over if things turned ugly.

They only had a few steps to the door when the first shot rang out.

"Get down!" someone screamed and then it was chaos. He pushed the woman onto the ground, pulling out his gun as he spun to face the crowd.

He had one of HYDRA's soldiers in his sights when a little boy got in the way. Frozen in front of him. Eyes wide.

"Bucky, no," the woman on the floor cried out, reaching up for him, for his gun. His finger pressed against the trigger. Collateral damage.

He took a breath.

And didn't fire.

Someone pulled the kid out of the way and the soldier was still standing there, grinning. "Going soft? Always knew all that shit they did with your brain would backfire at some point," the soldier said, raising his machine gun and letting loose a volley of shots. Three of the police officers fell – they weren't getting back up.

More screaming. More mayhem.

He used the confusion as cover, grabbing the woman's arm and dragging her to the exit behind the escalators.

The gunshots and the screaming became one horrible screech in his head, turning the world red. The door slammed behind them and they were in a narrow hallway. Safe. But not for long.

"Please, you can let me go now," the woman pleaded from the floor. She'd tripped when he'd pushed her through the door. He could leave her, he didn't need her anymore but the gunshots and screams could still be heard through the door. Chaos.

He pulled her to her feet. "Move."

He kept her in front of him, his attention over his shoulder, waiting for the door to inevitably open. The first man through the door died with a bullet between his eyes. The second, anticipating the shot, ducked but he caught another bullet in the thigh, high and probably fatal, but still managing to get some shots off.

The dying soldier's aim was off but, but the bullets still connected and he stumbled a bit, but shook it off. Something to worry about later, if there was a later.

He didn't know how many other HYDRA agents were in the museum, but he knew the place would be swarming with them shortly. The police, at least, didn't seem to be following.

They reached the end of the service hallway and he pushed open the heavy metal door, wincing at the bright sunlight that greeted them. It was so dark in the museum and he'd been so lost in his thoughts and the mystery of his past, that he assumed the whole world had gone dark along with him.

"We need a car," he said.

"We?" The woman stopped in her tracks next to a dumpster. "I helped you escape. I'm not going any further."

He took a step toward her and he pointed toward the building they'd just emerged from. "They saw you with me."

"So? I'll just tell them the truth."

"They won't care about the truth. They'll hurt you until they get all they need and then they'll dispose of you." He walked up to the dumpster and pushed it up against the door, creating a barrier that would barely hold for a minute, but it was better than nothing.

"And what will you do? Buy me flowers and read me poetry? I'll take my chances with the cops."

"Cops? This is HYDRA," he said as he stalked toward a car parked down the alleyway. It was a sedan, non-descript. Smashing the window, he reached in and unlocked the door, opening it. "You're nothing to them. They don't leave behind witnesses. They don't interrogate. They torture and they kill."

"And you're one of them"

Stepping away from the car, he turned toward her, his eyes meeting hers. "Get in the car."

"So you can chop me into little pieces? They always tell you to NEVER get in the car." She looked over her shoulder for an escape, but the only way out of the alley and away from him was back into the museum.

"I won't hurt you." He didn't know if he had the capacity to lie – it didn't feel like a lie.

"There are no keys," she said, flailing now for excuses.

"I can hotwire it. I know how."

"Bucky, please."

"Get in the car." The museum doors rattled and he started to mentally countdown from sixty. They were out of time.

She must have realized that as well, scrambling to get inside the car. He crouched and pulled out the wires below the steering column.

The museum door slammed open, the dumpster rolling and almost tipping over. The woman had her eyes on the soldiers that poured out of it as he worked to start the car.

"They're coming," she said.

"Almost got it …"

XxXxXxXxXx

It was raining and the base was knee deep in mud. They weren't going anywhere anytime soon and Bucky was bored out of his mind. He'd dragged Steve to one of the Jeeps parked behind the barracks.

"Pay attention, Rogers, 'cause I'm only going to show you how to do this once." He proceeded to give a very fast, half-assed demonstration of how to hotwire a car.

The engine sparked to life and Bucky sat back, a shit-eating grin on his face. "Your turn."

Steve shook his head with a laugh. "Buck, you talk faster than that guy down on Fulton when he's taking bets on the horses. No one could follow those instructions."

"Are you sayin' you can't do it? It's okay if you can't. I mean, we can't all be perfect."

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?"

Bucky shrugged, hoisting himself out of the Jeep and sauntering over to another one parked nearby. He gestured to the driver's seat. "Your chariot awaits."

Steve joined him. "So, what do I get if this works?"

"Respect? Bragging rights? I'll buy the first round tonight?"

"The Commandos have a running tab. The Army's paying for every round."

"I'll _pretend_ to buy the first round tonight," he said without missing a beat. "Come on, Steve, you've punched out Hitler a thousand times, you got this."

Steve shouldered Bucky out of the way and climbed into the Jeep. The angle was awkward as he ducked to get under the wheel to the wires, but he managed. The car started on the first try.

"Of course." Bucky shook his head, laughing. "Thought they were shitty instructions?"

"Maybe they weren't so bad after all," Steve said with a good-natured smile.

Bucky slapped him on the shoulder. "You're a natural. You know, once we get home, if this whole Captain America thing doesn't pan out, we could always boost cars for a living."

XxXxXxXxXx

The car started but Bucky sat there, staring straight ahead. "What are you waiting for?" Sarah asked, panic rising in her chest.

He didn't respond.

She swallowed heavily and said, "Bucky?" He blinked slowly and looked at her and for a second she saw a world of emotion in his eyes.

"Stop calling me that," he said, but it wasn't the same tone as all the other things he'd barked at her – those were orders. This was … sad almost. Sad and lost.

"We have to go. They're going to catch us," she said, pointing through the windshield at the men swarming the alley.

"Go?" He shook his head, like he was trying to wake himself up. He stared at her, an almost wild look in his eyes, but then his gaze shifted, like he was looking through her. "Get down!" he shouted, pushing her head down as he shifted the car and threw it into reverse.

The passenger's side window exploded and glass rained down on her. Bucky whipped the car around in a U-turn, barreling out of the narrow alley, gunshots denting the trunk and shattering the back window. His fingers were digging into her scalp as he forced her head practically under the dashboard. They cleared the alley and he loosed his grip, removing his hand, but she didn't get up.

"It's clear," he said, the flat, emotionless tone back.

Her eyes were shut and her hands were shaking, it felt like her heart was going to beat right out of her chest and she was never going to be calm again.

"We need to ditch this car and get another one before they catch up."

"Of course we do," she said through chattering teeth. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was turning the wheel with precision, not a single wasted movement, his eyes darting from the windshield to the rearview mirror to the side windows, not missing anything.

He looked down at her, as if he could sense her looking at him. "I can teach you how to hotwire the next one."

His voice was completely different and the corner of his mouth quirked up into a grin. "What?" she asked, confused.

"Taught Steve. It's a piece of cake."

"Bucky?" she asked and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He turned suddenly, cutting off a car, the loud, angry honking following them down an abandoned street.

He stopped the car in the middle of the road, resting his head on the steering wheel. "Stop calling me that," he said through gritted teeth.

Her number one rule should be "never touch a brainwashed assassin having a mental breakdown in the middle of a car chase" but she wasn't that great at following the rules anyway. She placed her hand on his shoulder, hoping to offer some comfort. He shrugged it off and she flinched, pulling her hand away.

There was something warm and wet on her hand and she looked down.

Blood.

Bucky's dark jacket hid it but now that she knew what to look for, it was the_ only_ thing she could see. Lots of blood, soaking the back of his jacket and staining the seat behind him a dark, sickening red.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

XxXxXxXxXx

It looked like World War III had broken out at the Air & Space Museum when Sam and Steve pulled up in Sam's SUV.

"This doesn't look good," Sam said as Steve jumped out of the car, jogging to the entrance, cutting a path through the crowds of people. Emergency personnel were everywhere, comforting and treating scores of people. "Not good at all," he muttered to himself.

Steve had already found the person in charge when Sam caught up to him. "What's the situation?" Sam asked.

"There was a 911 call. A man called in a tip that the suspect being sought in the overpass shootings last month was in the building," the officer explained.

Steve glanced at Sam and they both knew exactly who he was talking about. "And then what happened?" Steve asked.

"Police were dispatched to the scene. We're not clear exactly on what happened. Several officers were killed and we're getting statements from the others and from witnesses." The cop look frazzled and Sam was afraid to see what the inside of the museum must look like.

"Apparently there were other gunmen on the scene, dressed in tactical gear, and they opened fire on everyone, cops and civilians."

"Jesus …" Sam said under his breath.

"And the man you were looking for? The man the call came in about?" Steve prompted, a stricken look on his face. The cop wouldn't have noticed it, but Sam did. Steve was wound so tight he was about to burst.

The cop shook his head. "Either he was never here to begin with or he got away. At this point, I have no idea which it is."

"Can we look at the surveillance footage? We're looking for the same man."

The cop looked them up and down and Sam could tell he was weighing his options. Protocol was probably that he should say no, but when dead cops are involved, protocol could take a flying leap. Plus, who could say no to Captain America?

XxXxXxXxXx

The security guard eyed them nervously as he rewound the footage. "It happened roughly thirty minutes ago," he supplied and Steve nodded to him, thanking him silently.

The Captain America exhibit was the one that had the most carnage, so they started with those cameras. The shooting started and it was mayhem. People were running and falling and the men doing the shooting were moving through the crowd like a pack of machines. It was like watching that cyborg movie Rumlow recommended to him a few months ago – the coincidence wasn't lost on him.

The chaos made it hard to focus, but then Steve noticed him. Bucky – he couldn't bring himself to think of him as The Winter Soldier – was standing in the midst of the violence, pointing a gun at one of the assailants when a kid got in the way. Steve held his breath, waiting for the inevitable. But then it didn't happen. Bucky turned and he and woman disappeared through an exit while the shooting continued.

"What the hell …" Sam said, watching over his shoulder.

"Go back further, before all this happened," Steve said to the security guard.

Now that he knew what to look for, it wasn't hard to spot Bucky. "Change of clothes. That's a good sign, right?" he said to Sam as he watched Bucky stop and stand in front of one of the stations in the exhibit.

Sam shrugged. "Sure. I mean, he might want to consider adding a pop of color to his wardrobe, but all in all, this is an improvement over Mindless Assassin Chic."

Steve tapped on the monitor. "What's here? What's he looking at?" he asked, even though he knew the answer – as though hearing it from someone else made it more real.

The guard leaned closer, squinting. "That's the section on Sergeant Barnes."

"Cap …" Sam started, using his _don't get your hopes_ _up_ tone.

"He's remembering, Sam, I know he is."

They watched as Bucky ran into a woman and they appeared to talk and then he pushed her into the screening room.

"That's the same woman from later," Sam said.

Steve nodded, as he pulled out his phone and started dialing. "We need to find out who she is." He put the phone to his ear as it rang.

"What's the status of the situation?" the voice on the other end said.

"Natasha, we need your help."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Facial recognition software? That's hot. And you claim you don't know how to talk to women, Rogers." Thirty seconds into the phone call and Steve realized how much he'd missed having Natasha around.

"Funny," he said, trying to suppress a grin even though she couldn't see it. "Can you help?"

"Of course. Get a copy of the surveillance footage. Try to find the clearest images of the hostage and our friendly neighborhood assassin so that I have something to upload for a match. I'll be there in two, maybe three hours." Steve switched the phone to his other ear, hiking up the cuff of his jacket to check his watch. They'd already lost an hour. As much as he hated waiting, at this point time wasn't really of the essence and without good intel, they would just be running around Washington like chickens with their heads cut off.

"You know, she might not be a hostage," he said and he caught Sam out of the corner of his eye, shaking his head, glancing at the ceiling as though looking for diving guidance.

Natasha clearly wasn't convinced either. "And I might be your fairy godmother," she deadpanned. "Look - this will all go easier on you if you don't make excuses for him. Expecting the worst case scenario makes the actual outcome a whole lot easier to swallow."

"I can't help it, you know that."

"I don't think the glass is going to be half full this time, Steve." Her voice was softer than normal. This was the Natasha that lurked beneath the tough exterior, the one she only let a select few know existed. "What he's been through … people don't come back from that."

"You did."

She chuckled, not a sound he associated with the Black Widow.

"What?" he asked.

"You got me there, I admit it."

"And Clint …"

"I had to hit him really hard on the head. I don't think that will work in this case."

"I just want to help him."

"And I just want to make sure you don't get hurt in the process. You're my friend. He's the guy who shot me twice and almost killed you."

"How about if I go with cautiously optimistic?"

"_Very_ cautiously optimistic," Sam leaned in and whispered.

"As long as you let me be the voice of reason," Natasha said.

"Deal."

XxXxXxXxXx

"You're bleeding?" Sarah was about to have a panic attack. There was blood all over her hands and some quasi-Nazi soldiers were about to discover them any minute and … god, there was so much blood.

Bucky leaned back, wincing. "I got shot." She couldn't see much of his face under the hat, hair and grime, but what she could see looked pale and waxy.

"No shit, Sherlock," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I don't suppose you'll let me take you to the hospital?" She rubbed her hands on the seat, trying to wipe the blood off, saying a silent apology to the owner of the car they'd stolen.

He looked over at her. His eyes were blank and cold. It was like he kept switching between channels – human one second, dead and emotionless the next. "Negative. Treat it."

Her mouth fell open. "Treat it? Like surgery?"

He blinked a couple of times at her, like he was waking up and trying to figure out where he was. He looked down, opening his jacket. From below his ribs down, his t-shirt was wet with more blood. He lifted the shirt and tilted his head, like it was every day you examined a bullet wound in your own side. "No surgery," he said. "It went straight through. Duct tape."

"Are you joking?"

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers and he didn't answer her. _Right_, she thought_, he didn't do joking. Probably ever. _

"It works," he said and she grimaced.

"I don't think I want to know why you know that."

"You're right. You don't."

XxXxXxXxXx

The desert was dry, the terrain unforgiving and every bump the Humvee tore over jolted him and sent shards of pain rattling through his battered body. He was lying in the back of the vehicle, unrestrained but unable to move. Cold. He felt cold. But different from the cold he'd woken from a few days ago. This was different. He was weak. He was never weak.

The mission had been a success, but he'd been a casualty and that was unacceptable.

"He's hurt, sir," the soldier who was in the back with him said. "What do you want me to do?"

"How the fuck should I know?" the soldier in the passenger seat snapped – his name was Rumlow, he remembered. He was important – his handler had given him his name, the others were nameless, faceless.

Rumlow looked over his shoulder and shrugged. "Slap some duct tape over it and let's get the hell out of here. Let the mad scientists take care of it. If we're lucky, he'll bleed to death on the way there."

"But, sir …"

"'But sir,' what? We don't fucking need some brain dead Frankenstein to do our dirty work for us. 'Bout time they lost their little experiment and let us real soldiers do what we signed up for."

He could feel his eyes on him. Dark. Menacing. There was something different about the soldier named Rumlow. He looked at him. The others never did, like they were afraid of him.

Rumlow sneered. "Duct tape. That's an order."

XxXxXxXxXx

They switched cars in a parking lot – quickly finding one that was unlocked because smashing a window wasn't exactly subtle and they were going for subtly in their exercise in futility. It took Bucky a few quick seconds to get the engine to turn over. Apparently he'd decided to save his hot-wiring lesson for another day.

"Drive," he said, stepping out of the car after he'd gotten it to start. He was still dangerous and imposing and could kill her with a good long stare, but she couldn't help but notice the way he leaning on the door, like he was using it for support. He was hurting and getting weaker. She could run and maybe stand a shot at getting away.

As if sensing her thoughts, he said, "It's not safe. They have your face on camera. They'll track you down."

Somehow her life had turned into a bad action movie.

"You mean they'll find my apartment?"

He nodded.

"And they'll ransack the place?" _Ransack?_ She could officially add that to the list of words she'd never thought she'd say outloud. She was _this_ close to dissolving either into a puddle of tears or a torrent of hysteria-induced giggles.

"Mission protocol would require them to inspect the premises, yes."

"But … my cat."

XxXxXxXxXx

"I knew I should have just stayed in bed this morning. I knew it." She pounded on the steering wheel, shaking her head. "I'd even said to myself, 'Sarah, there's no reason to do anything other than read a book, have some coffee and veg on the couch with Jonesy all day.' That's my name, by the way. Sarah. Not that you seem to care. And Jonesy is my cat. He's a jerk, but right now he's all I've got. Sad, right?"

She glanced over at her kidnapper. His eyes were closed and his head was leaning to the side, pressed against the passenger side window. His breathing didn't sound too hot and she felt a knot of worry twist in her stomach which was ridiculous because, well, he was her kidnapper and she should be happy he appeared to be dying as she drove them to a Wal-Mart in Arlington. She chewed on her lip, wondering if Google would tell her if it was possible to develop Stockholm Syndrome within a couple of hours or if she was just a giant pushover.

Bucky stirred when they pulled into the parking lot. He motioned to a spot that was close to the door but off to the side. She supposed there was some sort of tactical advantage to the particular spot, but since she would be the one driving if a car chase did break out, they were shit out of luck anyway.

He handed her his baseball cap and she took it from him, scrunching up her nose at it. "Put that on, keep the brim low, don't look up at any cameras," he instructed. "In and out. Quick. Cash only."

"I don't have any cash."

He dropped a wad of bills in her lap before she could finish the sentence. "Let me guess," she said as she flattened out the money before tucking it into her pocket. "Part time job at McDonald's? Pizza route?"

"Tore open a money machine in a convenience store after hours."

"Or that," she said with a nervous laugh.

"Gather supplies quickly but not too quickly. You don't want to draw attention to yourself and rouse suspicion."

"Have you ever been in a Wal-Mart? People shop there without pants on. I don't think we need to worry about me drawing attention."

XxXxXxXxXx

Sarah was back to the car in less than thirty minutes with a cart full of bags. Her assassin-slash-kidnapper appeared to be sleeping in the front seat, which didn't strike her as being very professional, being an assassin and all. She tapped on the glass, startling him.

There was a gun his hand faster than she could blink, pointed out the window at her, his finger on the trigger. "Relax, Clyde," she said raising her hands, trying to stay calm so that he'd lower the gun. "It's me, Bonnie, I got the supplies. Can you pop the trunk?"

He blinked slowly at her, lowering the gun. "Clyde?"

"It's a joke – a movie. Which you probably haven't seen, so me telling it is pretty much pointless."

"You said your name is Sarah, not Bonnie."

"I know. Like I said, bad joke. Maybe we'll start a list of the stuff you need to catch up on. Books. Movies. TV. Music." She pointed, tapping on the window. "The trunk?"

Bucky leaned over, his arm pulled stiffly to his side, more blood on the seat behind him, as he reached down and pulled on the lever to release the trunk.

Sarah unloaded everything and circled back to the driver's side door. She plopped into her seat and pulled off the hat, handing it back to him. Pushing her bangs out of her eyes, she said, "I got you something."

She tossed a silver roll into his lap and he picked it up, twisting it back and forth as he inspected it. "Duct tape," he said.

She put the car into reverse. "Don't say I never got you anything."

XxXxXxXxXx

"Stark?" Steve said, confused, holding his door open, staring at the man who had been pounding on it moments earlier.

"Cap." Tony nodded.

Natasha was in the hallway behind Tony. "Steve."

"Nat."

"Well, this is a riveting conversation," Sam interrupted as he stepped forward and held his hand out. "Sam Wilson."

Tony took his hand, shaking it. "The pleasure is all yours, I'm sure."

"Um …"

"Natasha," Steve interrupted, "what is Tony doing here?"

"Great to see you, too, Uncle Sam." Tony patted him on the shoulder as he pushed his way through the group crowding the doorway. He had a black, hi-tech looking briefcase with him and he lifted it up, tapping on it. "Natasha called, said you needed help finding Boris but Moose and Squirrel could use some assistance in the tech department."

"Did you just call me a squirrel?" Sam asked.

"Sam, meet Tony Stark," Steve said with a sigh.

"Yeah, I got that." Sam said, crossing his arms.

Stark looked him up and down, suddenly snapping his fingers. "Exo-7 Falcon, right?"

"Yes." Sam uncrossed his arms and squared his shoulders. Steve couldn't help but grin at how proud his friend looked.

"Remind me to fill you in on the Exo-8. Could really use your input."

"My … you want _my_ input?"

"Of course. You're the guy who's going to be using it. Gotta rebuild the wings from the ground up – keep them from being so easily clipped by every Tom, Dick and Hydra agent who grabs onto them."

Tony kept talking as he made his way into the apartment, arms waving as he started throwing the typical Stark-jargon at Sam, who seemed to be eating it up with a spoon.

Steve held back, motioning for Natasha to join him.

"Seriously, Nat?" he said, trying to be quiet, but knowing Tony wouldn't be able to hear him over the sound of his own chatter anyway.

"We need him."

"What did you tell him?"

"Everything. He can be trusted."

Steve knew that. Of course Tony could be trusted. The man was annoying and frustrating beyond belief, but at the moment, he was one of the only people in the world Steve would trust with his life. He just couldn't help thinking about what he and Sam unearthed in the vault. When Tony found out he was helping them find the man who more than likely killed his parents, he wasn't exactly going to be thrilled.

"Cap," Tony called over. "I love what you've done with the place. Bullet holes. Very avant-garde."

Steve ignored him and looked down at Natasha. "Anyone else going show up? Is Barton parking the car?"

Her expression grew shuttered at the mention of Hawkeye. "He's not here."

She started to walk away, but Steve grabbed her elbow to stop her. "Everything okay?"

She smiled, the kind she reserved just for a select few – soft, wistful, a little sad – no trace of the spy. "Getting there. Fury asked for his help in Europe. He's heading there now. It'll be good for him."

Not for the first time, Steve found himself wondering just how much there was between Natasha and the archer, but he left all his questions unasked and settled for a nod.

"Good," he said and she looped her arm with his, tugging him away from the door.

"Very good, Captain," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear and he noticed her necklace – the one with the arrow charm. He realized he didn't need to ask the questions to get his answers.

XxXxXxXxXx

"Bingo. Got a match."

"Sarah Quinn," Natasha read from her spot on the couch next to Tony. The briefcase housed a very powerful computer that was currently tapping into agencies Steve was pretty sure they had no business tapping into. A woman's driver's license was displayed along with a whole slew of information that went beyond your typical age, weight and hair color rundown.

The picture that stared back at them belonged to a very average looking woman – cute bordering on pretty, wide-set green eyes, light brown hair, easy smile. She was twenty-four, average height, average build. Nothing that screamed secret Hydra agent, which made Steve think she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Tony was scrolling through the data compiled below her picture. "Looks like she's a waitress who moonlights as a reporter. Or vice versa. Some riveting articles about cupcakes and 101 uses for vinegar popped up. Maybe Robocop needed some emergency household cleaning tips?"

"Where does she live?" Steve asked.

"Outskirts of town where the apartments are a bit cheaper, crime statistics a bit higher."

"Let's go." Steve stood up, back straight, his shoulder tense. His hands grasped at the air, like he was already holding his shield.

"The probability of them being there is pretty much non-existent, you know that, right?" Sam asked.

Steve let out a breath, his shoulder sagging slightly. "Well, we gotta start somewhere."

"Can't hurt to look," Tony said and Steve had a feeling he was just humoring him. "Anyway, the program will keep running – searching for matches from surveillance cameras, cell phones, your basic Big Brother type situation that makes everyone feel all warm and fuzzy inside." Tony pulled out his cell phone. "Jarvis will shoot me any alerts and data as soon we get a hit and I'll turn on the Cap Signal and let you guys know as soon as I do."

"And if it doesn't work? What then?" Steve asked.

Sam clasped Steve on the shoulder. "Relax, man. We've got this. It'll work."

Tony stood up, briefcase in hand. "Well, I'd love to stick around, but I have a cocktail party to attend in less than five hours and a little firecracker named Pepper who will kill me if I miss it."

"We can handle it from here. Thank you, Tony," Steve said, holding out his hand.

"Anytime, Cap." Tony tightened his grip as he shook his hand, his expression a little less cynical than normal. "Oh, and when the wild goose chase is over, drop by the tower sometime. Need your measurements."

Steve dropped his hand, his eyes narrowing. "My measurements?"

"New suits. Top of the line. Got the best designers working on them."

Steve looked at Natasha who just shrugged. "Humor him. Yours is full of holes anyway."

"And, like, a hundred years old," Sam added. "Plus the Smithsonian wants it back."

"Besides," Tony interrupted, "I need to show you your floor."

"We've already discussed this."

Sam glanced up at Steve, his eyebrows raised. "Discussed what?"

"Tony wants us to all move into Stark tower together," Natasha explained.

Sam snorted. "Like a superhero Brady Bunch?"

"Exactly. Only some of us value our privacy and solitude."

"A floor, 007, I'm giving each of you an entire floor. The bathroom is bigger than this apartment. You could go days without having to see neither hide nor hair of me, though we both know you'd miss me terribly."

She rolled her eyes and made a fist, like she was holding a knife, one she would like to plunge into Stark's heart. Steve smirked and shook his head.

"And for the umpteenth time, it's not Star Tower anymore," Tony said, closing the lid on the briefcase and latching it. "It's Avengers Tower and it's far easier to assemble if we're all in one place and not scattered all over the globe."

"Not everyone wants to live in a billion dollar high rise, Tony," Steve said, running his hand through his hair. Part of him liked the idea of moving back to New York, but he pictured himself more in Barton's rundown apartment building that in the spit and polish of Stark's metal and glass monstrosity.

Sam stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "Dude, if you don't take it I will."

"Oh, don't think I haven't thought about where to put you up, birdbrain," Tony said.

"Seriously?" Sam eyes got wide and he looked exactly like a kid at Christmas seeing the gifts under the tree for the first time.

"Maybe not a whole floor." Tony said. "Not yet, anyway. Need some time to meet with the architects, work out the details."

"Maybe a broom closet," Steve joked.

"A _very_ nice broom closet," Stark corrected.

"I think what Tony is trying to do, Sam, in his own special way, is ask you to join The Avengers Initiative. You are doing that, aren't you, Stark?" Natasha said, her patented "I've had enough of your rambling; get to the point before I electrocute you" face on.

"Yes, if you want to get all technical and clinical and detached and suck all the fun out of the room, then yes, that's exactly what I'm trying to do." Tony turned to Sam. "How about it, Wilson, you in?"

"Hell yes. But like I told the last guy who made me a similar offer, I'm a soldier, not a spy."

Tony walked over to the wall that faced the buildings across the street, running his finger over one of the bullet holes that had ripped through the place the night Fury had been shot. "Well, one thing I've learned these last couple of years, we need the soldiers just as much as we need the spies. That right, Cap?"

Steve crossed his arms and nodded. "Can't win a war without troops. Good to see you've finally figured that out."

Tony turned and clapped his hands together. "Okay, that settles that. So without further ado, you have a stray cyborg to track down and I have to go put on a tux and schmooze New York's elite as I try to explain the benefits of privatizing global security. Don't think I wouldn't trade places with you guys in a heartbeat."

XxXxXxXxXx

The motel was grimy and rundown, but it was one of the few in the area that took cash, no questions asked.

Bucky kept his right arm wrapped tight around his side as he slowly walked from the car to the room. Something wasn't right. He shouldn't feel so tired, so drained. He'd been shot before, but his handlers had taken care of it and he'd never remembered anything beyond the initial rush to surgery. He'd wake, days, months, years later - cold, confused, healed, repaired.

There was one surgery, though, that he kept seeing flashes of. A saw of some sort. His arm. The one that was metal, was suddenly flesh. There was blood. Pain. Bone. Pain. So much pain.

He stopped, catching his breath and the woman – Sarah – turned, her eyes wide with worry. Worry for him. He wanted to let her go. Tell her to run. But she wouldn't get far. HYDRA didn't like loose ends. Didn't allow for loose ends. He'd pulled her into his world and made her a target.

A feeling he couldn't name curled in his chest and clawed at his brain as she hurried over to him, tucking her shoulder under his metal arm. She tensed and he knew she'd realized what it was. She'd told him at the museum that she knew who he was – not just the soldier named Barnes, but that he was the monster who'd hurt the captain. Surely she knew about the arm.

She hesitated for a second before gently tugging him toward the door. "Come on, time to put that duct tape to good use."

"It works," he said, his words tired, his brain slurring everything together.

She smiled and he found himself wanting to smile back, but not knowing how. "I know," she said. "I Googled it."


End file.
